He turned toward her again. “I guess we’re going to spend a little time together, my little bitch.”
She just shook her head and reminded herself not to let him get close enough to touch her.
“I couldn’t find you,” he said. “You gave up the bars and you threw away your phone, naughty girl.”
He was six feet away. Then four feet. Then she pulled out the small canister and fired right into his face. He cried out and with lightning speed his arm shot out and knocked the canister from her hand, but not before he’d taken a hit in the face. Maybe not as much as she’d hoped, but he’d been hit. And she’d gotten a little overspray; she felt the sting in her eyes immediately.
Though half blind and disoriented, he grabbed her and slugged her in the face so hard she fell. He kicked her out of the way and she couldn’t breathe. She thought she was doomed but then he went to the sink and flushed his face with water. She wasn’t sure she could stand so she crawled away from him as quickly as she could.
When she had a little distance from him, she pulled herself upright but looked despairingly at the picnic table against the door, her eyes tearing madly. If she broke a window, could she somehow outrun him? Was his vision bad enough to give her a chance? Because after being kicked in the stomach, she wasn’t going to be very fast.
She couldn’t afford to think about it for long. She took to the stairs. She would be cornered up there but her only hope was to stay alive long enough for help to come. She’d made three calls for help. Cal’s house wasn’t close to first responders and it would take them a little while—ten or fifteen minutes—but she was banking on this man’s pathology. He wasn’t going to kill her until he tormented her. She’d survived him once, she could survive him again.
She ran to the master bedroom and closed the door but of course there was no lock on the door. She gave the bureau a tug but she couldn’t budge it. She looked around for something to bar the door, something to hit him with. She looked in the master closet, so large it was almost a room unto itself. Cal and Maggie hadn’t moved their things into the closet yet because Tom was still in the process of finishing it with custom shelves and hanger rods. The finished wood was cut to the right sizes, stacked and about half the closet finished.
She heard some powerful pounding coming from downstairs and she tried to imagine what he was doing. Breaking up the place? Destroying it?
On top of the pile of boards sat the nail gun.
She had to search for an outlet and plugged it in. She lifted it to turn it on and it was so heavy she could barely hold it. She’d been around Cal’s house when some of the building was going on and she knew from observation you couldn’t fire nails out of the gun by pulling a trigger—the later models had been improved and were much safer than the earlier nail guns. It had to be pressed against something to work. And it was too heavy for her to hold behind her back like a small canister of pepper spray.
She heard breaking glass and wondered what it was. Was he trying to make his escape through a broken window? She sat atop the stacked boards, the nail gun in front of her and the outlet behind her.
Then, without warning, he was standing in front of her in the closet doorway. She nearly jumped out of her skin. His eyes were red and already swelling, his burned cheeks wet with his tears. And yet the sneer on his face was so awful, so sinister. She remembered—this was what he liked! A victim who fought!
There was a shout from inside the house.
“Craig Dixon, you’re surrounded! You have no exit route—come out now—hands in the air!”
“So, you told,” he said. And yet he grinned a sick and evil grin. “And here I thought you’d learned your lesson.”
Suddenly she laughed. “You wish,” she said, matching him for bravado.
“You’re a bitch,” he snapped.
“And you’re an impotent loser!” she flung.
He lunged at her, his hands around her neck, a growl coming from deep inside him. He squeezed and shook her, her head slamming against the closet shelf. It took enormous willpower not to grab for the hands that choked her but the self-defense training kicked in. The nail gun was almost too heavy to lift with one hand, so it was slow and she prayed not to lose consciousness before she could at least do some damage. She pressed it into his side and fired—crack, crack, crack, crack.
His eyes were wide and startled as he looked into her eyes, but he didn’t lessen the grip on her throat.
She pressed the gun into his side and fired again. Crack, crack, crack.
An inhuman yowl escaped him, the cry of a wounded animal, and he resumed choking and shaking her and her peripheral vision began to darken. She saw stars for a moment.
Then suddenly he let go and she was dimly aware of some kind of struggle but she couldn’t focus. She fell off the small stack of shelving to the floor, straining to take a breath and to focus. Her hand rose weakly to her neck and she thought, vaguely, I don’t think the police had time to respond...
Then there was a face above her. Pete. The bow hunter. Oh man, he must have found her elk in Cal’s pasture! She had been rescued by an elk hunter. She let her eyes close.
“Medical is on the way, Sierra,” he said, brushing her hair back from her face. “We got him. He’s in custody.”
She looked at him. “Cus...” she tried lamely. Then she coughed. She could breathe better but her throat was certainly damaged. “Custody?” she asked again.
“Yep, in handcuffs, in custody. You’re safe. I’m not leaving you and Medical is on the way.” She could hear a siren in the distance, still a long way off. She closed her eyes again.
“Pete?” she whispered. “Were you shooting elk?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “I’m hunting more dangerous game. I have a lot to explain to you. After you’ve been to the hospital. Better make sure he didn’t hurt you too badly. Stay awake now. Stay with me—you took some hard knocks to the head—don’t go to sleep on me.”
She just shook her head and reminded herself not to let him get close enough to touch her.
“I couldn’t find you,” he said. “You gave up the bars and you threw away your phone, naughty girl.”
He was six feet away. Then four feet. Then she pulled out the small canister and fired right into his face. He cried out and with lightning speed his arm shot out and knocked the canister from her hand, but not before he’d taken a hit in the face. Maybe not as much as she’d hoped, but he’d been hit. And she’d gotten a little overspray; she felt the sting in her eyes immediately.
Though half blind and disoriented, he grabbed her and slugged her in the face so hard she fell. He kicked her out of the way and she couldn’t breathe. She thought she was doomed but then he went to the sink and flushed his face with water. She wasn’t sure she could stand so she crawled away from him as quickly as she could.
When she had a little distance from him, she pulled herself upright but looked despairingly at the picnic table against the door, her eyes tearing madly. If she broke a window, could she somehow outrun him? Was his vision bad enough to give her a chance? Because after being kicked in the stomach, she wasn’t going to be very fast.
She couldn’t afford to think about it for long. She took to the stairs. She would be cornered up there but her only hope was to stay alive long enough for help to come. She’d made three calls for help. Cal’s house wasn’t close to first responders and it would take them a little while—ten or fifteen minutes—but she was banking on this man’s pathology. He wasn’t going to kill her until he tormented her. She’d survived him once, she could survive him again.
She ran to the master bedroom and closed the door but of course there was no lock on the door. She gave the bureau a tug but she couldn’t budge it. She looked around for something to bar the door, something to hit him with. She looked in the master closet, so large it was almost a room unto itself. Cal and Maggie hadn’t moved their things into the closet yet because Tom was still in the process of finishing it with custom shelves and hanger rods. The finished wood was cut to the right sizes, stacked and about half the closet finished.
She heard some powerful pounding coming from downstairs and she tried to imagine what he was doing. Breaking up the place? Destroying it?
On top of the pile of boards sat the nail gun.
She had to search for an outlet and plugged it in. She lifted it to turn it on and it was so heavy she could barely hold it. She’d been around Cal’s house when some of the building was going on and she knew from observation you couldn’t fire nails out of the gun by pulling a trigger—the later models had been improved and were much safer than the earlier nail guns. It had to be pressed against something to work. And it was too heavy for her to hold behind her back like a small canister of pepper spray.
She heard breaking glass and wondered what it was. Was he trying to make his escape through a broken window? She sat atop the stacked boards, the nail gun in front of her and the outlet behind her.
Then, without warning, he was standing in front of her in the closet doorway. She nearly jumped out of her skin. His eyes were red and already swelling, his burned cheeks wet with his tears. And yet the sneer on his face was so awful, so sinister. She remembered—this was what he liked! A victim who fought!
There was a shout from inside the house.
“Craig Dixon, you’re surrounded! You have no exit route—come out now—hands in the air!”
“So, you told,” he said. And yet he grinned a sick and evil grin. “And here I thought you’d learned your lesson.”
Suddenly she laughed. “You wish,” she said, matching him for bravado.
“You’re a bitch,” he snapped.
“And you’re an impotent loser!” she flung.
He lunged at her, his hands around her neck, a growl coming from deep inside him. He squeezed and shook her, her head slamming against the closet shelf. It took enormous willpower not to grab for the hands that choked her but the self-defense training kicked in. The nail gun was almost too heavy to lift with one hand, so it was slow and she prayed not to lose consciousness before she could at least do some damage. She pressed it into his side and fired—crack, crack, crack, crack.
His eyes were wide and startled as he looked into her eyes, but he didn’t lessen the grip on her throat.
She pressed the gun into his side and fired again. Crack, crack, crack.
An inhuman yowl escaped him, the cry of a wounded animal, and he resumed choking and shaking her and her peripheral vision began to darken. She saw stars for a moment.
Then suddenly he let go and she was dimly aware of some kind of struggle but she couldn’t focus. She fell off the small stack of shelving to the floor, straining to take a breath and to focus. Her hand rose weakly to her neck and she thought, vaguely, I don’t think the police had time to respond...
Then there was a face above her. Pete. The bow hunter. Oh man, he must have found her elk in Cal’s pasture! She had been rescued by an elk hunter. She let her eyes close.
“Medical is on the way, Sierra,” he said, brushing her hair back from her face. “We got him. He’s in custody.”
She looked at him. “Cus...” she tried lamely. Then she coughed. She could breathe better but her throat was certainly damaged. “Custody?” she asked again.
“Yep, in handcuffs, in custody. You’re safe. I’m not leaving you and Medical is on the way.” She could hear a siren in the distance, still a long way off. She closed her eyes again.
“Pete?” she whispered. “Were you shooting elk?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “I’m hunting more dangerous game. I have a lot to explain to you. After you’ve been to the hospital. Better make sure he didn’t hurt you too badly. Stay awake now. Stay with me—you took some hard knocks to the head—don’t go to sleep on me.”
